


i'll keep them still

by bountifulsilences



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Angst, Emotional Hurt, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, M/M, Mental Anguish, Mental Health Issues, Past Drug Addiction, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, i read somewhere that in theory steve can get "high" and this is an angsty product of that, i think this is all the tags
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-11
Updated: 2018-11-11
Packaged: 2019-08-22 06:44:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,429
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16592840
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bountifulsilences/pseuds/bountifulsilences
Summary: Bucky, Sam, Natasha and Clint have gone on a road trip. Bruce and Tony are busy in the labs. Steve struggles to resist a temptation.One last time, that was it. Never again.He didn’t even sound convincing to himself.





	i'll keep them still

**Author's Note:**

> between the bars - elliot smith. that's the fic.
> 
> i dont explicitly describe him taking the drug bc...idk i felt like it was better without it??? i dont know what this is but its something and i hope you like this! 
> 
> all mistakes are my own as i suck at editing but wbk knew at this point

Steve knew he was a mess sometimes (all the time), in fact he was surprised how no one managed to unearth just how deep his issues went and how often he struggled to breathe the oxygen circulating around him without choking on the poison. But in that moment, with a tremor destabilising his core and a need growing within him, he was painfully glad that no one had.

It had been six days since Sam and Clint planned a road trip, excitedly discussed locations and times and expectations. It had been four since Bucky and Natasha joined them on their voyage.

The tower was unusually quiet without the presence of his friends and the promise of a swift return had he needed them; it was larger than he preferred, minimising his impressive body into what he saw in the mirror decades ago, deterioration and pain.

Confined within the walls were Bruce and Tony, processing and describing and formulating and creating, things too dense for his mind to absorb. Strolling into the lab and walking up to the bench where they worked, Bruce had smiled at him briefly whilst Tony offered a hand gesture acknowledging his presence unable to proffer anything else. He wasn't needed, to leave was the only option.

After that failure he retreated to his room where he idly processed daytime television, searched the web for the latest news, checked his phone occasionally, went on a run three times a day, and slept when his body succumbed to the exhaustion. Loneliness plagued him, spiralled around him and seeped into his veins as a slow toxin that he couldn't expel no matter how hard his body tried. Things weren’t okay.

Temptation curled around him, a shock blanket in his state of confusion because, how? How could he feel immense depression when there was nothing wrong? Life felt empty and hollow, all the good that he reminded himself of tumbling off the edge, diving into the waters around him as the lighthouse with a depleting bulb demanded to be changed. He had no strength to do it himself.

It was a little-known fact, perhaps only Natasha knew of the phenomena, but whilst on a mission with her they infiltrated a drug lab. An innocent and perhaps righteous origin to a shameful story. In the room he fought, someone threw an unknown (at the time) drug on his face and he stumbled, shield rising to shelter his face and process what had happened.

It took mere seconds for the powder to be ingested and processed, and suddenly life surged through his body. Energy he hadn’t experienced in decades gushed within his limbs and he didn’t think of notifying anyone- forgot that he had to. Using the long-lost strength, he decimated the group of enemies, working swift and efficient and fast, his lungs absorbing breath through his skin and not his mouth. Nothing felt real.

Before he left the site to rendezvous with Natasha, he cleaned himself up, eliminating the evidence (they would want to administer tests and he didn't want any more) and plastering a neutral, relaxed expression on his face. Upon seeing him, Natasha raised an eyebrow.

“That good, huh?” she asked, amused but calculating.

“Therapeutic,” he replied. “Knowing that they won’t be hurting anyone is good enough for me. 

Of course, it wasn’t just that, the seed of the drug had been planted, the knowledge of what the substance could do was there. On the ride back, he where he would usually be burrowed in his pit of depression and silent suffering and guilt, it had elevated him to the sky where none of that mattered. It was just him and clouds, things were inexplicably good. He would have to test it again to see if the results were consistent. It was for science, he reasoned.

So, he found a dealer in an unfamiliar alleyway, two men exchanging money and a parcel, one anxious about being caught and the other eager. Seeing his imposing figure cut off the light, the dealer made a move to run but Steve intercepted, face concealed to remain anonymous, and requested heroin, the strongest he had.

And that was where it started, the chaotic descent into an addiction he never knew he had but didn’t want to leave. Missions, friendly outings, sleeping- they all required a dose for him to do. Watching the tv in the tower, a beer in one hand and the other tapping his thigh incessantly, he remembered why. It took all of his stresses and gave him euphoria in return.

While he fell in a never-ending plunge, the drug gave him wings to fly. He wanted to fly again.

Six days of internalised angst, the reality of his failings, his weaknesses and the fact that no one wanted to be around him, it was leaving a mark. He didn’t want to think of them, didn't want the truth to haunt him constantly when there was no escape; he tried to submerge them into acid and forget but just couldn’t.

It was a good thing he collected a batch on his last run. Just in case, he had told himself.

But it was vowing to eradicate the images of fallen bodies on the war plain, the plummet into the alp, a plunge into the arctic. Wrapping itself around him seductively, forcing him to stare at its promising eyes, they declared he’d forget it all. Just one taste was all it took. It vibrated in his pocket.

It was so, so tempting when his head felt stuffed with what he didn’t want. Mistakes and misfortunates and lessons he was forced to learn. He didn’t want them, but they were always there. They were reason why he needed it. His fingers clenched into a fist.

He recalled vividly the elation he would feel, how the world beneath his feet felt as though it was synthesised from cotton rather than stone. How wonderful it was being taken out of the prison that was his mind and existing in the present, joyful. He couldn’t hate his life if he forgot it was his.

But with good came evil and there were plenty with his drug. The dangers that emerged whilst taking it- he knew. Natasha drilled them into him when he had gotten too careless and took more than he should have, practically bouncing off the walls she had said. He needed the adrenaline, he explained, needed the rush.

In the end, he was forced to stay clean, Natasha threatening to put him out of commission until he promised stopped the drug use. In the end, he had no choice. At least she respected his decision to endure the detox alone, checking in consistently, forcing him to change if not for himself then those who admired him.

A hypocrite. That was what she called him, telling others not to take drugs when he was high himself. But he couldn’t help it, he needed it.

Craved what it made him feel and how it manipulated him into a person he didn’t know he was, someone desirable and was able to tolerate the world along with his own burdens. He didn’t want to be him, not when he was what he was.

Burning on his thigh, the packet beckoned him.

Staying clean was a struggle. It was climbing mount Everest with his pre-serum body and falling through the cracks and surviving, unable to die. Why couldn't he die? But he had done it, under the watchful eye of Natasha and helping Bucky assimilate and saving the world and doing press conferences and meeting world leaders and visiting the troops and-

His bones cracked. He released his fingers. He sighed.

It was a disease and it did so much hurting when he tried to leave, but he’d survive a night in slammer if it was there with him. Running a comforting hand through his hair, understanding his misery when not even he could. One more time, that was it. He just needed one last test.

Putting his beer on the floor beside him, he pulled the transparent parcel out of his pocket and felt the white powder in his hand. To survive, you had to take risks. That was what he was doing. And no one would find out, not Natasha, not Bucky, not Tony- no one. It was his secret.

Opening the plastic bag, he drew a thick line with the power and dropped to his knees, taking a deep breath.

One last time, that was it. Never again.

He didn’t even sound convincing to himself.

**Author's Note:**

> tumblr:  bountifulsilences   
> twitter:  AwestruckBuck 
> 
> im an angsty bitch everywhere


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